


Thalamos

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, M/M, Prostitution, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:36:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Altihex destroyed, Wing needs a different way of fulfilling their custom.  Sort of a follow from Altihex Glow though don't ask me how any of this works in series because I do not know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thalamos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyofdragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofdragons/gifts).



“You still have your seals?”  Aileron’s voice came out halfway between surprised and curious.  “I mean….”

“It’s how we do it on Altihex,” Wing said, optics darting around the small café table, confused.  “You find a special mech, and when you do, you give it as an offering, that his hands are the first to touch you.” 

“I think it’s romantic,” Strikeplate said, saluting Wing with his half-empty glass.

“I think it’s weird,” Aileron said. “I mean, how good a partner can you be, if you don’t know anything? It’s got to be boring for the mech you choose.”

“Boring?” 

“Well, yeah. I mean, you don’t know any of the good stuff.”  Aileron swirled his green engex in the bottom of his glass.

“Yeah,” Strikeplate countered. “But you get to be someone’s first. I mean, surely that’s something special.”

“I guess. I mean, there’s that, but I guess I’d rather be someone’s last, you know? That’s what matters.”   He gave a wink over at Wing. “You know, if you ever go get those things popped….” 

“That’s kind of a problem, isn’t it?” Strikeplate said. “I mean, you know, with Altihex gone, and—oof!” He looked over at Aileron, then dropped his head, sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Wing said. “I guess…it’s something else I never realized I’d lost.”  One more loss, really, beyond his home, his culture, everyone he’d known.  It wasn’t Strikeplate’s fault, any of that.  It was Wing’s fault that the reminder still hurt. But it was a hurt he wasn’t ready to let fade, because it felt like letting go of all of it.  Still, they were right, and he was long beyond the time to have had his seals broken.  Looking across the table at the two of them, he couldn’t help but feel a little bit, well, naïve, immature, not as worldly.  “I guess I’ll have to, you know, think of something.” 

[***]

Drift had made a habit of never learning names in this line of work. It just helped each assignation fade into a dull blur, the same as  dozens of other grunting, thrusting mechs who felt that they owned him, at least for a cycle.

But this time, maybe he’d make an exception. Because this? This was nice. Real nice. The nicest place he’d ever seen, the kind of thing they talked about in holovids. The floor was some spongy red stuff under his footplates, unlike the glass-splintered concrete of Rodion.  And there was an oil bath, actually big enough to soak in, with temperatures and scent additives. And the energon dispenser had this…little toggle thing that if you pressed it, it mixed some sort of fizzy gas into the energon so that it danced on your glossa, bright and pink and tasting of happiness.

He felt, for the first time in as long as he could remember, clean and fed and safe. 

It didn’t matter what he was going to have to do for this client: it would be worth it. What wouldn’t be worth to feel like this, if even for a cycle or two? 

All they’d told him is that someone would be coming to the room, later tonight, and to show him a good time. Frag, this was the best time he’d ever had right here. 

[***]

Wing chimed at the hotel door, feeling a flutter of trepidation in his belly. He knew Aileron and Strikeplate meant well, and maybe this was an answer, an option, but he wasn’t ready. He didn’t know when he’d be ready, but it wasn’t now. 

But he couldn’t bear the thought of whomever they hired waiting, and wondering why no one came. And, well, he’d admit to a tiny curiosity—he’d never seen a buymech before. But the buymech was a mech who deserved consideration, same as anyone. So Wing would just go in, meet him, thank him for the option and reassure him he’d get paid. Wing even had some shanix in his storage, if maybe that wouldn’t be taken as an insult. 

He was readying some words, the right thing to say, when the doorpanel slid open.

“…you?” 

They both spoke at the same time, almost matching in surprise and dismay, stepping back simultaneously, so much so that for a klik Wing thought he might have been looking into some kind of strange mirror. 

Drift recovered first, stepping aside, jerking his head for Wing to enter. Whatever was going to happen, it seemed Drift didn’t want it to happen in the hallway, at least. 

“Drift,” Wing began, and then stopped, waiting for words.  “I didn’t….”

“Yeah, not something I really wanted you to know,” Drift said.  “For, you know, obvious reasons.”

“Obvious? But if it’s what you do…?”

“What I have to do, Wing,” Drift said, mouth pulling down.  “Gotta eat somehow.”

“Drift, you—“ A ping interrupted them, a soft tone from the room’s energon dispenser, and Drift looked sheepish for a moment, caught out, as Wing realized what it was. 

They stood, silently, in the hotel room’s entryway, until the dispenser pinged again, alerting them that a batch had been infused with gas and was ready to drink. It said something about Drift, something touching about him, almost like the tangy scent Wing recognized as the hotel’s signature oil scent.  He’d come, he’d cleaned up, he’d taken a childish delight in fizzy drinks. It was…it was Drift. 

Drift, who was turning to the dispenser, hastily pouring the bubbling pink into a glass, hesitating as he looked over. “…want some?”

“I would. I’d love some,” Wing said, his voice moving around a hard bubble of relief, that they were talking, even if it was dancing around civility.  He looked over at the small sofa in the room. “May I?”

Drift followed his gaze. “Yeah, yeah. Sure. I mean, you’re paying.” The last word seemed to grind from his vocalizer. He rasped a sound through it, before moving to hand the second glass over to Wing.  “Or your friends are.” 

“My friends,” Wing said, fingers wrapping around the glass. “I think they…they were trying to help.”

“Help what?”

“I’m…still sealed.”

Drift blinked, looking utterly lost for a moment, his optics flicking down between Wing’s thighs. “You mean?”

“Yes,” Wing said, feeling his panels heat, almost as if Drift’s gaze had some electromagnetic heat to them. 

Drift looked up at Wing’s face. “But. I mean. You?”  He couldn’t believe someone like Wing didn’t get offers. 

“Where I’m from, it’s…it’s not done, to interface, to take lovers without having experience.”

“Seems kind of circular,” Drift said. 

“We have—had—on Altihex, special temples. I just never…,” he felt  his vocalize roughen with unshed tears, “got around to it.”

“So…me?” Drift sounded humbled, clumsy, as if he couldn’t believe he’d be worthy. He wasn’t worthy. He certainly didn’t feel worthy.  Not of something like that. He was just a common buymech, one with a Lightwave access node. That was all. Nothing special, and nothing even close to deserving a mech’s seal-taking. 

Wing laughed into his energon, and for a moment Drift thought it was because of the ways the bubbles tickled his lip plates.  But it was a rueful laugh, self-aware and awkward. “I came here to say thank you but that I couldn’t.” 

“You couldn’t.”  The shoulders sank downward, half a relief, half a disconsolate droop, as though he’d just started to see a miracle, and it was run through as a mirage. 

“I didn’t…I wasn’t going to do it. But.”  Wing’s hands twisted over the energon glass, before he leaned forward, with that burst of moment that spoke of a decision, and took one of Drift’s hands.  “But.” He tried again, but he still couldn’t put it into words. But this time, he didn’t have to: he tugged Drift’s hand, drawing him closer, until their mouthplates met, in a kiss that was sweet and fizzy and warm and electric that had nothing to do with the effervescent drink. Drift’s mouth opened against his, beginning as a shape of protest, before melting into something soft and velvety, Drift leaning forward, a little purr in his throat.

Their bodies overcame the clumsiness of their words, their histories, the now erasing the past, and not sparing a thought for the future, tangled up, utterly, in the sensations of the moment. 

Wing had thought he’d be awkward in this, clumsy, a stranger to his anatomy.  But when Drift rose, silently, leading him to the vast berth, he’d followed, feeling his whole body alive with charge, and wanting nothing more for that one narrow contact of their hands to grow, body on body. He’d hugged other mechs before, but this was a different feeling he craved—craved was the right word, some place between an appetite and a hunger. He wanted to lie with Drift, armor sliding over armor, his hands exploring the wonderful undiscovered country of Drift’s body, while the other’s hands moved knowingly over his. 

Drift went slowly, for his part, as slowly as he could.  He didn’t know what these temples were Wing had talked about, but he knew enough about another mech’s body, and he knew enough what was too fast, too callous, so he moved, slowly, gently, letting his hands and mouth roam freely over the jet’s chassis, the cables of his throat.  It felt like a dream, somehow. It didn’t feel like a job at all. Interfacing was normally just a job for him, a rote repetition of steps, ones he could follow the way a drunk could find his way home, a sort of thick muscle memory.

But Wing’s body was inviting, his EM field shimmering and plush in a way Drift had never felt before: fearful and wanting.  And Drift knew that if he had been a stranger, Wing would have said his piece and left, maybe with a little tip, maybe with a friendly kiss. But Wing did this…because it was Drift, because he wanted Drift to be his first.  He wanted Drift.

It was a gift far rarer than anything Drift had ever had before. And something, he realized, no one could ever, ever, take from him. 

So he let his hands, knowing and sure, trace the edges of Wing’s chestplates, finding the little wells of static electricity, tugging open the sleek grey-silver of the wings, marveling at their silky metal. 

And Wing’s responses were exquisite, arching and twisting, his vocalizer a well of beautiful syllables.  His hands clutched at the berth, clutched at Drift when he could—the finials of his helm, the flanges of his armor, as Drift slowly worked his way around Wing’s body, skipping over the interface hatch, trying to teach Wing the rare pleasures of mouths and fingers, the sensitive, arousing parts of his own body. 

If anyone had asked, Drift would have said something, truculently, about being paid good shanix, and doing a job to measure up to that, but in his spark, he knew it was because a willing, wanting, beautiful partner was the real prize here, and that showing him the pleasures of his own body was something he’d never imagined. Most of his partners knew their bodies, knew what they wanted, but Wing was a blank file, ready to be written on with characters of pleasure.

Maybe he was exorcising his own ghosts, too, the callous meanness of his own initiation still raw in his memory.  Maybe he was playing out how he wished his could have been, so maybe he was using this, in a sense, to overwrite his own past, create something sensual and beautiful.

He couldn’t untangle that, not right now. Right now, he just wanted these beautiful thighs parting at his touch, the air filled with the soft sounds of Wing’s engine, the throb of his EM field, like waves of liquid velvet.   

Drift looked up, over Wing’s body, as he opened the interface hatch, thumb caressing the newly revealed brushed metal, its texture like satin.  He’d seen seals: well, fake ones. He’d had more than one client who had that whole fantasy of taking a virgin. Most of the time, roughly. So he knew what he was looking at, the plastic tabs that prevented the covers from opening.  He nuzzled in, licking the valve plate, hands stroking up the sleek, silver thighs, reveling in the aroused squeak of Wing’s voice, the way the thighs trembled underneath his touch. 

“Please,” Wing breathed. “…it hurts.” 

The tabs did that: locking your interface equipment away, forcing them to fill with charge with no release.  Drift nodded, reaching in to take one of the tabs, tugging at it sharply. The plastic snapped, and the valve cover whispered open, revealing the sheen of the mesh of an untouched valve, slick with fluid.  He could feel Wing relax, the gust of exhalation, as he leaned forward again, rubbing his nasal against the valve’s rim, smelling the tangy fluid, warm and inviting.  “Good?”

“Yes,” Wing breathed. “Only…,” his words trailed off, hand mutely reaching for Drift’s helm, pulling him up.  Drift took the hint, kissing a line up Wing’s belly before pressing his mouth against Wing’s, his body against the jet’s squirming frame.

“You want?”

Wing nodded, mutely, grinding his hips up against Drift’s still closed hatch.

Closed, but not for long: Drift reached down, flicking his hatch open, spike already releasing itself.  He wasn’t often expected to spike another mech—a few of them wanted it, but it was very much a guilty pleasure for them, to be topped. He was wiggling his hips against Wing’s when the jet stopped him. 

“I want—can I see it?” 

Drift blinked, before nodding, pushing back to his knees.  It made a kind of sense, to want to see what someone was going to put inside you, so he sat back, spike erect and glossy with its own lubricant, black and gold, while Wing looked.

“It’s beautiful,” Wing said, reaching a hand to touch it, almost amazed at the way the spike surged into the light touch.  “I wonder what mine looks like.”

“Could show you?”  Drift’s hand moved to the spike tab.

“Later,” Wing said, optics moving to Drift’s face. “Later, but right now?” His hand coaxed at the spike, trying to draw Drift closer by its touch. 

Like Drift could possibly want to resist an invitation like that. He lowered himself down, giving a kiss so tender he didn’t know he was capable of it to the silky mouthplates, as he nosed his spike gently into the valve, feeling the plush mesh shiver and expand around him, feeling Wing arch up, taking him in, mouth and body. It was…beyond words, how good it felt, like something sacred, like the way it ought to be all the time, but never really was.

Until now.

It was slow and sweet, neither of them wanting it to end, letting the rising charge swirl around them like water, eddying and dancing over the slow, surging tempo of their bodies.  And Drift would have wanted it to last forever: it was better than any circuit boost he’d ever felt, something that seemed so far beyond the life, the world he knew, that it felt like religion. 

But Wing was new at this, his body primed and eager, without the tricks of self-control one learned from practice, from having done the act so many times that it needed variety, so it was long, but not as long as either of them could have wished, before Wing’s body flung itself up against Drift’s, arms clinging to the spaulders of his shoulders, flightpanels scraping the berth as they flared with excess charge, the overload wracking him with that pure line of white, numinous pleasure. Drift’s own overload paled compared to that, a candle in the light of a nova, but it didn’t matter: all that mattered was Wing’s pleasure, the note of pure joy from his first release, pressed into Drift’s shoulder like a seal. 

He held Wing, stroking the quivering body until the last of the cascading current ebbed from the jet’s body, Drift’s own pleasure casting a warm golden glow over everything. 

“Thank you,” Wing said, his voice small and almost shy, hands trembling on Drift’s chassis. 

Drift shook his head, spark feeling heavy and light at the same time, an unfamiliar smile blooming on his mouthplates. “Don’t thank me,” he said. If anything, he should be thanking Wing for this, everything, from the soft carpet to the fizzy drink to the gift of Wing’s body, his innocence.  But the moment almost teetered into something too much, something neither of them was ready to handle, and Drift eased himself out of Wing, feeling the caress of the valve calipers against his length, as he moved his hand down Wing’s belly, to find the tab over Wing’s spike cover.  He looked  down at Wing, letting his smile fade to something a little cheekier. “Want to bet it’s pretty?”

Wing’s laugh, half a sob of pleasure, of joy, of connection, was all the answer he needed.


End file.
